


Omens

by MissJanuary



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissJanuary/pseuds/MissJanuary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hundred years of swirling, living ink. Layers of words, history unraveling on skin...and a love that was never supposed to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_** Omens  ** _

**A/N: Plot’s mine, but the characters belong to SM. No infringement intended. My beta team this time around: Maxipoo1024 and Lynzylee. Some of the standard warnings apply: Language, lemons, and of course my Canadian spelling. That being said, I feel like I should issue another warning not common to my writing, and if you were paying attention to the genre, you’ve got an idea. This is a supernatural tragedy. That’s all I’m sayin’. Know your limits, read within them. Thanks for checking it out and I’ll catch ya at the bottom ... I hope.**

 

~Prologue~

 

The mark on his back, the tattoo that branded him for what he was, pulsed in a steady rhythm—a pulse he’d followed half way around the country like a beacon to the shore, a beat that pulled him forward. His head snapped up, and his eyes scanned the early morning crowd. Across the street a slender brunette walked quickly down the damp sidewalk. She weaved between business suits and dodged tourists with a tray of coffee in one hand and a brown bag clutched in the other. Her dark hair swayed with each step of her cherry red Docs. His deep green eyes zeroed in on the girl, and a painful throb bloomed between his shoulder blades. She hooked a sharp right and took off down an alley, her boots kicking up spray as she marched through the puddles littering the alleyway. As she disappeared behind a building, the tattoo’s trembling rhythm receded. He’d found his story, and as he stood staring down the alleyway, he felt the first words of her story etch into his right shoulder. He was there to Witness her story from wax to wane. And that story was to start here, on the corner of Toulouse and Royal. He pushed up his sleeve and watched as darker than black print appeared. Two words started off this story. Much like ‘the end’ brings a story to a close, these two words would open it: Isabella Swan

 

**END NOTES: I swear the coming chapters won’t be so short. Thanks for checking it out. ~MissJanuary**


	2. Swan Dive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Not mine. No infringement intended.
> 
> Still with me? Good, let’s get to it then. Catch ya at the bottom, lovelies.  
> Beta buddies: Maxipoo and the lovely Lynzylee. Thank you girls!

March 9, 2014  
Humid. The rain broke the heat bubble that had surrounded the city and left everything damp and sultry.  
Moisture clung to her body and weighed down her hair, but she smiled and breathed in the smell of rain and wet asphalt. She looked at the heavy door before her and then down to her full hands. Her booted foot shot out, and she kicked at the gray steel door.  
“Open up, whore, or I dump the coffee!” Isabella hollered her watery threat with a bright grin.  
The door slowly swung open, revealing a busty, curvaceous blonde with bright red lips that quirked in a smug grin. She stood aside holding the door open with her foot.  
“We both know you’re full of steaming shit, Little Bird,” the curvy blonde said, snagging a cup from the tray as Isabella waltzed past her. “You need this juice just as much as I do.”  
Isabella just chuckled, walked to the front of the shop, and tossed the brown bag full of doughnuts on the reception desk. She pulled a coin from her pocket and held it up. “Ready, Rosie?”  
Rosie nodded and eyed the coin pinched between Isabella’s fingers. She hated that coin, or rather the task associated with it. The fucking supply run.  
Every Friday they flipped a coin; loser had the misfortune of dealing with the local supplier— and pervert—Allan Wingerbe. Allan thought he was the bee’s knees. Sadly, he was alone in that belief. He was ruthless in his pursuit of tail—his word. And spending even the briefest amount of time with him left the girls feeling dirty and skeezed over—Rosie’s words.  
Isabella flipped the coin and it toppled head over tail before landing in her palm. She opened her fist and together they peered at the dull silver coin.  
“Heads. You’re it, Little Bird,” Rosie said, patting her friend on the shoulder. “For the best really. I swear if that skeevie bastard smacks his lips at me one more time, we’re gonna need a new supplier, and Imma need an alibi.” The lazy, whiskey soaked drawl of Rosie’s voice gave her away as a southern Louisiana belle. Her Es and Rs often dropped away or rolled into an A sound. Isabella’s accent, by comparison, was soft with just the tiniest hint of smoke and wine to it—barely noticeable.  
Isabella and Rosie went about the opening routine; cleaning work stations, topping up the artist supplies, and going over the appointments scheduled for the day.  
Swan Dive was all Isabella had ever wanted. She’d gone to community college for business during the day, apprenticed with a local tattoo parlour in the afternoons, and busted her ass at a hole-in-the-wall pub every night and weekend for years. She tucked away every spare dollar and saved every tip until the day came that she could afford a shop of her own.  
Swan Dive had been open and thriving in New Orleans for four years, and Rosie had been a part of it from the get-go.  
“How’d the date with Dr. Smiley go?” Rosie asked, dropping the tubes and needles into the bleach solution.  
“Marcus?” Isabella spun in her chair to face her friend. “Meh.” She shrugged and twirled the pen in her fingers. “He talked about teeth a lot. Molars, crowns, and the highlight of the dinner … abbesses.”  
Rosie snorted, dropping the last of the tubes in the container and pulling the gloves from her hands.  
“Pasta and abbesses. Charmin’. So I take it the dry spell continues?”  
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Longest streak ever!” Tossing the pen down on the desk, she spun again, reeling around in circles, and said in a sing song voice, “Oh, but the beautiful boy that waited on our taa-ble.” She sighed dramatically and fanned herself. “Hotter than two goats in a pepper patch.”  
“Ooh?” That piqued her interest, and her ears.  
“Hmm.” She hummed. “Poor Marcus. Caught me in a hot little daydream. Mouth full of Cajun shrimp and my head a million miles away.”  
Rosie rolled her chair closer, her brows raised in a curious look. “Hot?”  
“Pinned against a wall, lip biting kinda hot. Then Marcus went and popped my steamy little bubble by opening his pretty mouth again. Did you know that dentists have one of the highest suicide rates in the US?”  
“Everyone knows that, Bell.”  
“Well I didn’t. An’ who in the happy fuck says shit like that on a date?”  
Rose’s upper lip curled and she shook her head.  
“Yea, that’s where the date ended.”  
“On such a sweet note,” Rosie said in a flat voice, her eyes crossing and her mouth gaping. “Next one’s my pick, Bella girl.” She grabbed a doughnut and bit into it, giving Isabella a sharp look.  
“Right, so long as you let me introduce you to Emmett.”  
Mouthful of doughy goodness, she mumbled, “No point.” She dusted the sugar off her chest and stood, taking a bottle of Windex and a cloth with her, determined to avoid the topic, even if it meant doing the fucking windows.  
“Come on—”  
“Men want skinny bitches like you. They can’t handle the curve, darlin’.” Her hand grazed her side, skipped over her rounded hip, and then smacked her ass, looking over her shoulder at the brunette shoving a whole doughnut in her mouth at once. She always tried to keep her excuses and gripes light, but the notes always dropped a little too sour.  
“Emmett’s not like that. He’s not like most men.”  
“They’re all the same, Llittle Bird.”  
Bella heaved a sigh. “He’s sweet, and funny, and damn hot, and I think—”  
“Stop thinking, doll.”  
“Like arguing with a fence post,” Bella grumbled. She walked up behind Rose and placed her hands on Rosie’s hips. “You’re sexy as hell.”  
“I’m fat.” She sprayed the window in front of her and stared straight ahead, not really seeing the movement out on the street, or the man standing under the lamp post watching the shop.  
Bella pressed her body against Rose’s beautiful form. “You’re afraid,” she whispered.  
Six years ago Rose’s world had been twixt and twined with that of one Royce King, a man so far above his raisin’ it was hard to see the attraction, a snob through and through. Royce was four years her senior, and Rosie was the quintessential eye candy—trim with curves in all the right places. She was a trophy, something to show off to his high society friends. Bright and shiny for the outside world, but behind closed doors things were dim, tarnished, and sometimes downright bloody.  
The day Rosalie Hale left Royce King, she swore no man would ever get that close again. She’d never allow another to build her up so high only to break her down like that. Rose gained thirty pounds that year. She built a wall around her, packed on flesh like amour.  
“Wear my shoes, pumpkin,” Rosie said in a sad voice. She dropped her tattooed arms to her sides. Bella had no idea what it felt like, sweet and loving as she was, she’d never lived through what Rose had.  
“Take ‘em off! Buy new shoes.” She squeezed Rose’s hips and rested her chin on her friend’s shoulder.  
“Am I interrupting an intimate moment, ladies? Mind if I watch? I promise I’ll be quiet as a June bug.”  
Bella and Rose turned slowly.  
Mike stood, arms crossed over his broad, sculpted chest, swirls of colour peeking out around the sleeves of his tight black shirt. His blond, shaggy hair standing in every direction. Black, blue, and grey smoke crawled up the back of his neck and licked at his chrome pierced ears. His bright blue eyes twinkled with mischief and maybe a little too much hope.  
Rose wrapped her arms around Bella and pulled her close.  
“Ladies, don’t tease.” Mike’s grin grew.  
“Maybe we call Jess, see if she wants to join in,” Bella suggested in coy voice.  
“Wife is always down. You know that.” And indeed she would have been. Mike walked to his station, flipped open his laptop, and scanned his appointments for the day.  
)*(  
An hour later, Bella flipped the switch on the neon “Open” sign and unlocked the door.  
“So Jazz’ll be in at noon for that back piece he’s got going. Bree’s got two smaller tats, so she’ll be on walk-ins, and my lucky ass lost the toss this morning, so I’m on supplies.” Bella grabbed the inventory list off the desk and shoved it in her pocket along with her phone. “If the shit hits the fan, call. Otherwise, kiddies, I’ll be back in about two hours. Wish me luck!”  
)*(  
Across the street an Omen stood, quiet and still; his vivid green eyes fixed on the slim brunette that slipped out the front door of Swan Dive Tattoos and snaked down the street with ease. He walked two blocks, parallel to Isabella, watching her as she twirled a key ring around her index finger. She rounded the driver’s side door of a lime green 1968 Camaro and slid into the seat like warm butter into a frying pan.  
This was her safe spot, her favourite spot, and it showed in the way her body molded to the sticky, warm leather interior, in the way her fingers curled around the wheel, and in the way her face relaxed and an easy smile melted across her lips.  
“Nice wheels,” the Omen said to no one at all, nodding his approval. “Terrible fuckin’ colour though.” Once the engine of the green car purred to life, he spun on his heels and made a quick move for his own car, a 1957 Chevy pickup truck in gunmetal grey.  
He tailed her for about thirty-five minutes before parking her happy place in the parking lot of Wingerbe Body Modification Supplies. The name Wingerbe took up most of the overhead sign; the rest was pretty much fine print.  
The Omen dropped his head and rolled his eyes. “The human ego, ever the fucking same.”  
He cut the engine and watched as Isabella took a deep breath and pulled the door open. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk at the reluctance Isabella gave off.  
His arm burned and his nerves jerked as new words wrote themselves into his skin. He sighed and rubbed his arm, used to but never comfortable with the Witnessing.  
)*(  
Allan stood, cocksure and smiling, behind his sales counter. The closer she stepped, the larger his grin grew. His rusty, red hair was slicked back, and his come an’ get it look unnerved Bella.  
“Cupcake, what can I do ya for?” His grin went supernova, and she had to fight back an eye roll.  
Bella stitched on her pleasant smile and said, “Hey, Allan.” She fished the list out of her back pocket and slid it across the counter. Tapping it once with her index finger, and she looked up to Allan, who was —predictably— staring at her chest. Her Miss Nice smile slipped. “It’s not cupcake, it’s Isabella.”  
She hated his pet names: cupcake, sweets, sugar plum. All of it screamed chauvinistic pig. He clucked as if she’d said something cute and charming; he looked over the list once, Bella twice. “Give me ten minutes or so to get this together.”  
Nodding, Bella leaned into countertop, admiring a Dragonfly tattoo machine in “crazy lime,” a colour not far from the shade of the Camaro sitting in the parking lot.  
Less than ten minutes passed when Allan re-emerged from the back, a brown cardboard box in his arms. He placed in on the glass counter and then bent over it, moving closer to Bella.  
“So, uh … we should go grab a coffee, ya think?” His thumb swept across his lips, his tongue followed in a move that was surely meant to be seductive but fell dead flat.  
Slapping a credit card down on the glass countertop, she reached out and pulled the box to her chest. “Just ring it up, Allan.” Her dark, muddy eyes begged him not to fuck with her.  
Allan barked out an annoyed grunt, then went about his job, plucking the card off the counter and swiping it. Isabella ignored him and busied herself with her phone.  
B: On my way back.  
R: Did ya feed him his balls?  
B: Nah, feeling generous today. But I could eat. Tell me my lunch is waiting for me.  
Allan handed her the receipt to sign and with a saccharine grin, she penned her name, grabbed the box, and made for the door.  
R: Lunch is waiting … and your sister’s in the back room blowing Jazz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes: And that’s where we’ll start this. It’s a slow and simple beginning, but be warned, it won’t stay simple. This going to be darker than I normally write.  
> Ok, so I’m Canadian and had to do a lot of digging and research on the general area, accents, and my favourite part, the quirky southern sayings. After reading notes from my pre-reader (thanks Lynzylee) I figured I should maybe include a dictionary of sorts. So here ya go.  
> Southern Sayings:
> 
> “Hotter than two goats in a pepper patch” = Hot!  
> “Argue with a fence post” = Stubborn  
> “Above his/her raisin’” = Snob
> 
> So tell me what you’re thinking so far. I want your words folks.  
> Catch ya in the next chapter.


	3. Lay and Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I don’t own Twilight, that belongs to SM, but this plotline is all mine, so is the bag of chocolate covered gummies I’ve got. 
> 
> Many thanks to Maxipoo, I owe her my first born. The playlist she made me for this story is fuckin’ amazaballs! ILY, Max. My pre-reader Lynzylee gets the gold pom-poms for her cheerleading. She is made of wonderful and I owe her boob squishes. 
> 
> Harass me on social media: Twitter @JanuarysFiction (MissJanuary)  
> FaceBook: MissJanuary’s FanFiction
> 
> P.S. This chapter’s a short one. Sorry.

A small, elfin looking woman with long, raven black hair sat behind Isabella’s desk, her legs crossed and her foot bouncing as she hummed a peppy tune. Her icy grey eyes meticulously scanned columns of numbers: cost versus profit, overhead, expenses—numbers, numbers, numbers. Her coral sweater and pinstripe, charcoal skirt hid the cherry blossom creeping up her left side; a delicate pink blossom caressed the underside of her breast. 

“Everyone knows,” Isabella whispered from the doorway, startling the petite woman. She walked forward, eyeing the girl, placed the box of supplies on the desk, and took a seat across from her sister. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Wanna bet?” Bella reached across the desk, opened the top drawer, and groped around until her fingers found what they were looking for—a bag of cherry licorice. She plopped back down in the chair and pulled a stick from the bag, pointing it at her sister like a weapon. “I don’t understand why you’re playing hide-and-go-fuck with Jasper, Mary Alice.”

Mary Alice shook her dark, perfectly curled hair, her cheeks pinking up a little. “Nope. No there’s been no fucking.”

“Fellatio only then?”

“Heavy petting, mostly. And his digits may have slipped once … err … four times.” Mary Alice’s face bloomed red as a tomato. 

Bella snorted. “So why you sneakin’ around then? You like him, right?”

“It’s just th—”

“No, Mar. Yes or no: do you like him?”

Mary Alice slumped a little further into her chair, her eyes refusing to meet Isabella’s. “Yes.”

“Do you want him?”

“Yes,” she said in a whisper.

“Then whatever bull-hucky excuse you’re about to feed me, whatever but you’re about to spew … stop. Jasper is smart, talented, sexy as fuck, well off. You’re twenty-seven, not seventeen, so don’t make this about the numbers. Eleven years is peanuts, baby girl. Fucking peanuts, and no reason not to go for it.” Isabella was used to this—the laundry list of reasons why not to get involved with someone. She also knew why Alice did it, why she looked for excuses to push people away.

)*(

April 1998  
A blonde woman stood at the end of a bridge, invisible to passersby, the rain coming down in thick sheets. Her clothes clung to her soaked body and her makeup ran down her face, mixing with the rain and her tears.

The Witnessing was near its end; she could feel it. Words were quickly searing into her skin, making her back ache and burn. 

Lightning streaked across the night sky, and bright blooms of white, blue, and pink lit the dark street for a quick moment. 

Tires screeched.

The sound of glass shattering and metal crunching was swallowed up by the clap of thunder overhead. 

A final breath was exhaled, and with it the last words of the story were branded into Jane’s pale skin. Their history had been Witnessed, their story told. Jane turned away from the wreckage and disappeared into the storm, following the pulse and pull of another story waiting for its ending. 

)*(

“So that’s that, Mary Alice Olivia! You’re gonna claim Jasper as your own. End of fucking story.”

“And say what, Little Bird?” 

The nickname, Little Bird, was born years ago and had since been the source of many an eye roll or secret giggle over the years. Riley, an ex-boyfriend, had assigned it to her and it stuck despite the fact that the Swan, her surname and the root of the nickname, was in fact a rather large bird. Coming from her younger sister, the name was even more absurd. 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe, ‘I like you, and I’m pretty sure you like me. ‘Cause, ya know, you put your dick in my mouth and all. So let’s make it official.’ Something like that might work.” Bella bit a piece of licorice and quirked an eyebrow. 

With her hand to her head and mock shock spray-painted on her pretty, pale face, Alice said, “Such a foul fucking thing. Don’t ever change.” They chuckled and Isabella chewed on her cherry candy. “So that’s it?” 

“Huh-uh,” Bella hummed, bobbing her head. 

And with that, the conversation was closed. Mary Alice went back to the books and Isabella neatly put away the supplies she’d purchased. 

)*(

Two doors down at a tiny cafe sat a woman with caramel coloured hair, a neat floral dress, and light blue patent heels. She sipped her pricey mocha and smiled as the Witnessing began and a familiar, comforting warmth spread down her back. She smiled and looked up to the cloudy, darkening sky. 

)*(

Across town in a small, dingy hotel room, Masen sat on a brown—might have been grey at one point—ottoman, the TV throwing a green-blue glow around the room. Long shadows stretched out around the room, flickering and dancing in the Tvs glow. The bed was rumpled and two pancake-thin pillows laid stacked one upon the other, his shirt unceremoniously chucked just inside the door.

A little more than two weeks ago, he arrived in New Orleans, following the dull pulse burrowed under his skin. Sometimes it took months to find his story, others only days. In the time since he’d arrived, he managed to secure a job at a pub around the corner; unfortunately Omens were not well compensated for their services. The constant moving left no room for any sort of life or career. He’d been around the world and back again in his ninety-nine years. It’d been nearly a century since Masen had a home of his own or lover in his bed for more than a quick blink. Omens lived lonely lives. Part of the punishment, he supposed. 

His started in an hour, and he was more than happy to be leaving the confines of the tiny, old shoe-smelling room. In a past life he wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, and the years hadn’t curbed his bitterness one bit.

He rose from his seat and pulled a black button-down off a hanger. He shrugged into it and rolled the sleeves up his forearms, leaving plenty of material to conceal the story silently unfolding on his bare arms. Grabbing his keys, he made for the door and out into the night, disappearing into the shadows of the streets below.

)*(

Lucy’s Retired Surfer Bar was in full swing. The heat of the night air seeped into the bar, stealing the crisp coolness the air conditioner tried exhaustively to maintain. Bodies moved between the restaurant and the open patio outside. Drinks with small toy sharks bobbing in bloody looking liquor seemed to be a crowd favourite. Music, quiet enough for conversation but loud enough to head bob or for an ass shake from time to time, piped through the bar. 

“That would have been a lot less awkward—maybe even romantic—if she’da left out that bit about his junk,” Bree said, her nose wrinkling. The youngest artist at Swan Dive was, oddly, the most prudish. She never swore, never drank; though newly twenty-one, you’d think she’d be swimming in it, beer goggles firmly in place. And any mention of a reproductive organ had her sweet face puckered in a comical grimace. Given the company she kept, her face looked like that a lot of the time. 

“Well, I for one am damn proud of our little closet freak. Took balls to say that to his face,” Rose said with a smirk, taking a little too much enjoyment in the way Bree’s brown eyes narrowed at her. 

“Little sister’s growing up.” Isabella put her hand over her heart and wiped a nonexistent tear from her eye. 

“Little sister’s likely in the back seat of Jasper’s car with her panties around her ankles.” Mike winked and raised his beer in salute, his wife, Jess tucked close to his side. 

Bree rolled her eyes and Bella chuckled. 

Bella’s phone vibrated on the table in front of her. Taking it in her hand, she glanced down at the screen.

BigEm: Is it safe?

B: Four drinks in. She’s feeling friendly. 

Bella put the phone face down on the table and looked up at Rosie, giving her a wink and mouthing I love you. Rosie’s brow furrowed for a quick second and then her red lips picked up in a tipsy smile. Three minutes later, that smile went sideways.

“Emmett Hudson McCarty the second,” he said, extending his hand to a stunned and steaming Rosalie. 

“Rosalie Hale,” she said, smiling sweetly at Emmett, but throwing daggers at Isabella. She held out her hand and gave him a dainty shake. 

“Don’t worry, Em, that stick up her ass isn’t permanent. Enough lube and it should slide right out.” Bella wagged her eyebrows and waved a redheaded waitress over. “Speaking of which, ya’ll want another?” She looked around the table. “Three beers, refill that Coke there, and can I get a gin and tonic for the sexy blonde over here?” 

“Course.” The redhead smiled as she cleared the empties. 

Rosie leaned sideways, her face tucked close to Bella’s ear. “Gettin’ me drunk won’t make the ass beatin’ Imma give you any less painful, Little Bird.” The gin saturated her accent and endings dropped from words left and right. Bella only smiled widely. 

As the night went on, Emmett inched closer to Rose, and maybe it was the booze, but she didn’t seem to mind. Emmett’s kindness made her comfortable. His easy smiles made her naturally friendly disposition shine through, almost enough to overshadow the insecurities she harboured. Though she giggled at his jokes and seemed to enjoy the conversation, her back remained tense and straight, and sometimes he’d catch a quick flicker of something in her violet eyes. Shame, maybe? Fear? Whatever it was, he made up his mind that his sole mission in life would be to wipe that all away. 

)*(

“Hold on to this asshat while I flag him a cab, will ya, Jake?” Masen handed off an obviously drunken cowboy to his co-worker and stepped out onto the dark street in front of Lucy’s. He hailed a cab and wrenched open the door. 

Jake passed off the sloshed man, shaking his head at the incoherent ranting coming from his whiskey soaked mouth. Masen roughly folded him into the back of cab, wished the driver luck, and shut the door. Turning abruptly, he collided with a slender brunette.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” Isabella said, looking up into deep pools of green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes:  
> Lucy’s Retired Surfer Bar is a real place, on a corner lot, you can google it. 
> 
> My plan is to update every Tuesday, but please don’t lynch my ass when (note the use of the inevitable, lol) that doesn’t happen.
> 
> Omen inspirations: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (Movie)  
> American Gothic (Short run TV show)
> 
> Playlist  
> House of the Rising Sun- cover by Lauren O’Connell   
> Alright people, tell me what you’re thinking.


	4. Days of Waste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is my disclaimer, and it’s far too lazy to even bother infringing. Not mine.   
> Hola! Glad to see you back for more. 
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter @JanuarysFiction or FB: MissJanuary FanFiction
> 
> Kisses to my beta team: Lynzylee and Max!
> 
> I realize it’s Wednesday ... and I said I’d post on Tuesdays, but in all fairness you were warned. So let’s get on with it people. Catch ya at the bottom.

The moment the front door closed behind her, Isabella began pulling off her clothes and dropping them like breadcrumbs behind her. She stood in her bathroom in Coca-Cola red boy shorts and a sheer black bra. She cupped her breast, hefted them, and then let them drop. “Meh,” she said with a shrug. “Mary Alice got the tits. But this ass…” she smacked her behind “…thank you, Momma!” 

The quiet laugh died in her throat. “Momma,” she whispered. For a moment Bella was quiet, and then a sloppy smile stretched her lips. “You’d be proud, Mom. Well, maybe not so much of the delivery.” She waved her hand in front of her own lady bits and giggled remembering the way Mary Alice had declared herself to Jasper earlier in the night. “But, yeah, Mary Alice told a boy she loved him. Not liked, loved. Skipped right past like. Quite a big thing for her, though I suspect the three tequilas she poured down her throat had something to do with it.” She nodded her head, agreeing with her own speculation. 

With both hands gripping the sink, her body swayed just a little as the beer she’d drank buzzed through her blood. Isabella looked up, meeting her own reflection. “I miss love,” she admitted to the blurry-eyed girl in the mirror. 

It’d been seven months since Kory-Rae. Kory was an audacious blonde with a dirty mouth and curves that could make grown men cry. She drew the attention of everyone in the room without so much as a word. Bella fell into her easily—fell for her desire and the way she wanted and wanted. Kory wanted every part of Bella, wanted to own her. And though the idea of being desired that much was appealing to Bella, and initially intoxicating, it wasn’t what she needed. 

Isabella had always been a one man, one woman kind of girl—as in one man and one woman. Something Riley had not only accepted but loved about her. Kory-Rae simply tolerated it…until she didn’t. Kory handed her an ultimatum: me and only me, or nothing at all. Though it broke her heart, Isabella went with door number two, knowing full well that wasn’t who she was, or ever would be. 

Monogamy wasn’t in her catalogue. She craved both the soft skin and delicate touch of a woman, and the hard planes and rough fingertips of a man. She’d tried more times than she could count to be with that one person, but the need, the crave for the other, always crept back in, forcing her to make choices about who she was and how she was going to live her life. 

Her relationship with Riley many moons ago hadn’t ended quite so dramatically. His job moved him out of state, and Isabella hadn’t been willing to follow. The two remained friends, chatting on-line from time to time. No hearts were broken. But after Kory-Rae, she’d come to the decision that trying to be something she wasn’t, wasn’t worth the ache. From that point on she was determined to only be with people that fully accepted her and understood that they could only have all of her if they were willing to give over half of her. 

Bella pulled herself away from her thoughts and tucked Kory in the past. Closing her eyes for a moment, she saw green eyes, unruly hair, and a crooked smile. 

***  
“Oh shit, sorry.” Bella’s eyes met with a handsome, if slightly brooding face. 

He stood stock-still for a moment, lips parted. “No, no. Fault’s all mine.” He tipped his head to her.

She turned away, then back again. “You work here? At Lucy’s?” 

“Yeah, on the occasion. You drink here?” His voice held a note of an accent. Irish maybe, Isabella had thought. 

“On the occasion.” She smiled up at him, hoping the booze hadn’t fucked with her face yet. It was one thing to down a few and slur every third word, but when you looked slurred, it was time to put the bottle down. 

He cracked a smile and chuckled. 

Yup, facial slur. Fuck, Bella thought, looking down at her red Docs. Bree just stood there, watching and waiting with her keys in her hand. 

“You need a cab?” he asked, pointing out to the busy street.

“Nope. DD.” She pointed to Bree. 

He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Have a good night, then.” And with that, he and the doorman disappeared into the crowded bar. 

“Fucking crap!” Bella marched towards Bree’s car, Bree giggling behind her. “On the occasion,” she mocked herself. “Fucking tool!”

“Smooth you were not, Isabella.” Bree pointed the key fob at her car and the lights blinked. 

“I really wasn’t. What the happy fuck was that?”

“A missed opportunity.”

)*(

Remembering the cocky grin, the open button exposing his neck, the curve of his lips, and his jewel toned eyes, Isabella slipped her fingers beneath her panties, one hand still gripping the sink. 

Her fingers worked quickly, months of frustration fueling them. She came with a loud moan, leaning over the sink, her legs shaking and her face flushed. 

“Yeah … hot,” she mumbled in a throaty voice. “He was most certainly hot.”

)*(

Shutting the door with his foot, he unbuttoned his shirt as he walked. Passing by the maybe-gray ottoman, he grabbed the remote sitting on the arm and turned on the TV.   
The bathroom light flickered above the mirror, washing the small room in an odd blue/green light. Masen shrugged out of his shirt and let it fall to the floor, pooling like black ink on the cracked tile. He turned on the shower and let the rest of his clothes hit the floor. Masen stepped under the hot but weak spray and let his eyes slip shut. Exhaling, he felt the smoke and the smell of the bar trickle down his body. His muscles bunched and relaxed under the meager stream of water. His arm burned and his mind pulled up the image of the small brunette. Her half-slurred, husky voice echoed in his ears, and he smiled.

The way she chewed on her lip, blushed, and kind of batted her eyelashes —which he was sure was completely unconsciously— made him chuckle. 

And just as quick as his smile had spread, it vanished with the knowledge of what was to come. 

)*(

10:27pm, September 1907~ Baker County Oregon 

A loud rumble tore through the city, shaking the ground beneath its citizens, but only one fell while another dissolved into the shadows, counting on the chaos of the scene to be his cover.

The body of Sheriff Harvey Kimble Brown, a well-loved and respected pillar of the community was the sole victim of the bombing, the sole target. 

They brought in dogs and private investigators from out of state, but not a single lead was ever stumbled upon. The case was never closed and no one was held accountable for the bombing or death of the beloved sheriff. 

Edward knew they’d never close that book. No one would come for him. He’d learned all he knew from his father, Carlisle Cullen. 

“Don’t give ‘em reason ta suspect ya, boy. Act shady, and they’ll think yer shady,” he would tell a young Edward. “An’ cover yer tracks. Don’t ever lead ‘em home.” 

He’d breezed into Baker on charm and a well made suit, under a false name, Anthony Healy, supposedly looking to move his young wife to a sweet little city like theirs. The only bit of truth in all of that was the name. Anthony had been his middle name and Healy his mother’s maiden name. 

He spoke to the right people, asked the right questions. And no one would ever know about the back alley dealings their shiny sheriff conducted in the dark of night. 

When Edward returned to Seattle later that week, his handsome father offered him congratulations and one of the few looks of pride he would ever bestow on his only son.   
The first came the day he put a gun in the hands of his eleven-year-old son and taught him how to shoot. 

)*(  
March 13, 2014

The nights flipped by quickly, like pages in a book, pages without any real event or consequence. Boring. A hundred and thirty one years of wandering in an ever evolving world could suck the joy and pleasure out of the human experience in a way Masen never considered. 

Everyone wanted to be young and beautiful and live forever, but forever was torture. Technology changed and advanced in mind blowing ways every day, but people, they reminded the same. What they wore and how they spoke morphed throughout the years, but the brass roots of human behaviour had never really strayed, and that made the prospect of forever utterly boring. 

Masen’s world was nothing but death and tedium. 

Until she batted her big brown eyes at him. Then Masen’s world became death, tedium, and a minor but growing obsession. 

Every night at the bar Masen searched the faces in the crowd looking for the drunk-flushed, beautiful face of Isabella Swan, his story. She hadn’t returned to Lucy’s that week, and stalking —sorry, Witnessing— her outside her tattoo parlor every day, wasn’t enough. He would watch from across the road as she greeted customers and bustled around the shop with a kind of contented look about her. Words would painfully scroll across his skin, adding to her story, bringing it closer to the end. 

He was there to Witness, to gather her story and watch it unfold, but never to intervene, and as a personal rule: never get involved or give a shit in any way. Emotions build attachments, something he couldn’t afford. 

“Lost in a good dream?” a portly but kind faced man said, taking a seat in front of Masen.

“Something like that,” he answered.

 

Laying a bill down on the bar, he said, “Whiskey sour. What’s her name?”

Masen chuckled and shook his head. “Isabella. Makes a beautiful lush.” He remembered the way she swayed on the sidewalk and the glazed look in her eyes. Booze and a warm Louisiana night made her face as pink as a rose petal. 

“Isabella,” the man repeated, “beautiful name.”

Masen passed him a glass and watched the man bring it to his lips and tip it back. He pushed the image of her into a dark corner of his mind again and again, determined to keep his distance. 

)*(

“Skinny jeans … best fucking thing ever,” Masen said as his hands cupped the rounded curve of a pert ass. 

An airy giggle bubbled out of the mouth of the bleach blonde he had pressed up against the cold metal of his Chevy. 

Kymmy, she’d introduced herself as, spelling her name slow and clear. K-Y-M-M-Y. She’d swished and swooped her pinky finger in the air, making a Y shape. Something Masen found ridiculous. 

Kymmy was vapid, under intelligent, with dark roots, glazed over blue eyes, and an impressive C-cup. Her lips tasted like strawberry and the way her leg slid against his, left little question as to just how far she was willing to go tonight.

Masen blindly reached for the truck’s door, pulled it open, and stepped back. He gestured for her to climb in and then jumped in behind her. 

It took her all of about four seconds to straddle him. The orange sequined top came off first and Masen took a moment to thank the Lord above for the careful work he’d put into her, particularly her chest. Her tits were perfectly round and her light pink nipples reacted beautifully to his mouth and his hands. 

“Christ, I take it back,” Masen panted, pulling at the jeans that clung to her like a second fucking skin. 

She giggled her kinda sexy, kinda annoying giggle and finally wiggled free. With the jeans set aside, Kymmy went to work on his pants.

Masen let out a soft moan as she slid her hand over his length, and again when she rolled the condom down his shaft. 

She bounced on him, whining and moaning loudly. She fucked like someone without a thought of the morning after. She rode him hard, like the consequence-free tourist she was. The thrill of a one night stand in a strange city with a strange man had her screaming like a porn star. 

That’s … not attractive, Masen thought, wishing she’d shut her fucking loud mouth and come already. 

She came in dramatic fashion, seat gripped in one hand, head thrown back, chest heaving, and a string of “fucks” flew from her pink, plump lips. But it was all wrong. The shape of her body, the airy quality of her voice, even the faux blonde hair, was wrong. 

He loathed his body for wanting anything other than the pretty girl seated on his lap. He poured his frustration into her, thrusting up in quick hard movements, gripping her hips with bruising force. He came with an angry grunt.

As he reached for his shirt, the tourist reached out and caressed the inky words on his shoulder and arm; she quirked her head curiously. Something about those tattoos looked … off. Different. 

“I … Are they moving?” She looked up at Masen in amazement and let her finger trace the loops and dives of the words. “The words … I could swear …” 

“Rye and Coke,” Masen answered in a flat voice. “You’re drunk.” He handed her her top and refastened his jeans. 

She gave the elegant lettering a long look and shook her head, deciding that Masen was right; it had to be the booze, and maybe a little sex stupor. 

“Who’s Isabella Swan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes:  
> A note on the flashback: That event is an actual unsolved bombing that occurred. You can google it.
> 
> Playlist:   
> Angel by Massive Attack  
> Islands by The xx.


End file.
